The Prodigal
by pgrabia
Summary: House returns to Priceton-Plainboro looking for forgiveness.  Will Wilson be willing to grant it to him? SPOILERS up to episode 8x1 and Fox previews of episode 8x2.  H/W friendship-ust, pre-slash.  Bad language, refer. to violence, suicide ideation.


**Title: ****The Prodigal**

**Author:** pgrabia

**Disclaimer:** House M.D., its character's, locations, and storyline are the property of David Shore, Bad Hat Harry Productions and Fox Television. All Rights Reserved.

**Characters/Pairing:** G. House, J. Wilson; House/Wilson pre-slash

**Genre:** angst, drama, romance, AU.

**Spoiler Alert: **All seasons up to and including episode 8x1 "Twenty Vicodin". Also includes some speculation based on Fox previews for episode 8x2. You've been warned.

**Rating/Warnings: M/R** for serious adult subject matter including drug and alcohol abuse, violence, and suicide ideation.

**A/N:** An idea I had concerning House and Wilson's reactions to each other following House's return to Princeton after being released on parole from prison.

**The Prodigal**

House stood at the half-wall that ran around the perimeter of PPTH's roof; he'd managed to escape Foreman's security henchmen as they followed him everywhere he went around the hospital. They didn't wear their normal uniforms but House wasn't easily fooled by that. He knew they had been assigned to keep an eye on him and report any hint of something suspicious back to the new Dean of Medicine who had House's freedom resting in the palm of his hand. House imagined the sense of power and control his former fellow now possessed over him was heady, seductive, difficult to manage and keep, so out of fear of losing it Foreman had his spies working from the moment House entered the hospital in the morning to the moment he left in the evening to keep him informed of any possible trouble brewing before something exploded.

House's place of residence was currently a rented room in the damp, dark basement of a less than luxurious boarding house, thanks to the court seizing his apartment and all of his possessions and selling them to help pay for the damages to Cuddy's house. As soon as the reconstruction had been completed and he had been rotting away in prison, she'd sold her house, packed up Rachel, and had left Princeton for good. Even House's motorcycle, baby grand piano and his collector guitars had been sold at auction. All he'd had left was a few hundred bucks squirreled away in a safety deposit box under an assumed name when he got out. The single eight by ten foot scantily-furnished room he rented by the month wasn't anymore home than his prison cell had been. It was a place out of the rain where he could heat up food in a small microwave he'd purchased at a charity thrift shop, and lie in a filthy bed listening to arguments and noise from the other boarders, the scratching of rats, trying to read or sleep. Sleep rarely came but fitfully anymore, not that he had been a good sleeper before prison and his current situation. It wasn't the noise or rodents that kept him awake; it was the nightmares—and there were many of them.

Then again, House had never really had a home. First he was moving constantly from Marine base to Marine base around the world with his father's career; then it had been his own restless spirit never allowing him to settle down and put down roots. He'd come close to having a home a few times—first with Stacy, then when Wilson had moved in with him, albeit temporarily after Julie threw him out and finally after Mayfield when he'd moved in with Wilson, first at Amber's apartment and then at the loft. Living with Wilson at the loft had been the closest he'd ever had to a home and he'd actually allowed himself to start to germinate there until Sam returned and Wilson, predictably, had plucked him out, root-buds and all and had given him the heave-ho. He hadn't moved in with Cuddy before she'd dumped him and though he'd lived there for years House had never considered his apartment to be his home.

As far as House was concerned, home wasn't so much the place where you lived but the relationship with the people you shared the space with; no people, no home. In prison he'd shared a cell with a psychotic Hercules of a man who ended up saving him from being shanked once, but there had been no relationship of any kind there, thus it hadn't been anything near a home.

The way things were now, House doubted he would ever find a home of his own.

Now that Wilson had no use for him, had given him the cold shoulder upon his return to Princeton, and had told him point blank that they were no longer friends and not to hold out hope, House didn't care if he ever found a place he could call home. Without Wilson in his life, House simply stopped caring about anything at all. Even the puzzles couldn't hold his interest anymore, to his great disappointment. He might never have returned to Princeton had he known Wilson had really moved on this time, but really, House had had no choice. To get parole he'd had to agree to work for Foreman under Foreman's terms, which had meant returning to this little town where those who didn't despise him or hadn't given up on him simply hadn't met him yet.

The only thing that had helped House survive prison was the faint hope that Wilson would be willing to give him yet another chance.

House stared down the six stories to the parking lot below. He remembered the last time he stood on the edge so high up, staring down at a crowd of stunned revelers—and Wilson. He'd had two choices if he jumped. If he'd turned one direction, he'd most likely land in the pool and survive; if he'd jumped the other way, he'd land on the concrete and almost certainly die. When he'd seen Wilson standing there below, his face pale and drawn with fear and worry, House had changed his mind from what he'd decided and jumped into the pool instead.

But there was no Wilson standing below staring up at him with obvious concern and care. There were simply people walking to and from their cars oblivious to his presence above and vehicles coming and going like they had before House had ever stepped foot into Princeton-Plainsboro and would continue to do when he was gone for good. No pool, no choice other than whether to climb onto the half-wall and jump, or not.

House had always secretly prided himself on not being a quitter, of struggling through whatever shit life threw at him and making it out alive, albeit miserable to his core. That man—that survivor—died two days before when Wilson had kicked him out of his office and told him that if he ever barged in again he'd call security and nothing House concocted to woo the oncologist back succeeded.

House had not only pushed it until it broke; he'd shattered it to thousands of little pieces. Just like the mirror he'd shattered over two years before.

A cold gust of wind blew through his thinning, graying hair but House didn't notice. He was too busy debating with himself whether it was courageous to keep fighting a battle that was doomed to fail or whether true courage was admitting defeat and refusing to be taken alive by those who would crush him, humiliate him, cut off his head, stick it onto a pole and leave it to the hungry scavengers circling overhead.

"There's no pool below this time."

House turned around to stare in surprise at Wilson, who stood just outside the doorway leading back into the hospital. He refused to allow himself feel any hope that this meant Wilson still cared. More likely he was there to give House a hand over the edge, figuratively or perhaps even literally.

"What are you doing here?" House's voice was flat, dead, completely devoid of the sharp cynicism and bravado it once had, in the Before years; that's how he divided up his life now, Before Prison, and After Prison. He preferred to forget that the months he'd spent in prison had ever existed.

Wilson sighed, shrugged, walked to the wall and leaned against it a few feet away from House; he stared not at the ground but at the lake about a half-mile away, and the running path that wound around it.

"I have no idea," he replied wistfully. "For a full year I told myself that if you ever had the gall to return to Princeton after what you'd done that I would have absolutely nothing to do with you anymore. I didn't expect your release to prison be tied to your return here. I probably would have moved away if I'd known in advance."

"Don't feel obliged to stay on my account," House told him, looking back down at the world below.

"That's the fucked up part of it," Wilson said with a bitter smirk. "I'm not staying out of misplaced loyalty or guilt or obligation to you. I'm staying because…because I don't _want_ to leave you…I don't know what the hell it is with you and me, House, but no matter how badly you fuck up and hurt me I keep coming back for more. It's some sick mental illness for which I've sought desperately this last year for a cure to…but I can't find it."

"Thanks," House muttered, fighting his urge to start screaming and never stop. "When you find it let me know what it is…because no matter how many times you fuck up and run away like a little girl I keep taking you back, too."

Wilson turned his head to look at him with outrage. "Times that _I've_ fucked up? You've got to be kidding! I've never killed _your_ girlfriend or tried to kill someone I loved by crashing into her home or walked away after almost mowing down my best friend and injuring him!"

"Neither have I," House replied, glaring back at him. He'd never wanted to have this conversation with Wilson before now because he'd been afraid of destroying their friendship if he had, but since that had already happened he had nothing left to lose anymore.

"What? You—!"

"I never called Amber and begged her to come get me—she came because she refused to send the message on to you—a petty little power play she used to remind me that she was in control of your life now and _she_ would decide when and under what circumstances you had anything to do with me. When she told me she was on her way down I told her not to but she did anyway just to further rub my nose in the fact that you'd chosen her over me, not that it was anything new for you. She chose to get on that bus and I sure as hell didn't have anything to do with the crash, nor the fact that she was popping flu pills like candy. You know that—you told me that you didn't blame me anymore! Guess you suffered selective amnesia when you fell and broke your wrist."

"Shut up," Wilson growled, setting his jaw and looking away.

"No," House answered. "You started this so let's finish it! I agreed to the DBS because _you_ asked me to—you valued her life over mine, not that that was any surprise. I did it because I saw that she made you happier than I ever had and more than anything I wanted you to be happy. What thanks did I get? You blamed me for her death and then shunned me. You never did apologize for asking me to put my life at risk or for treating me like shit afterwards but I mean, why should you? It wasn't like much would have been lost if I had died, right?"

"House, that's not fair—!"

"I never intended on hurting Cuddy or her guests," House continued, unabated. He wasn't certain that he _could_ stop himself now that momentum had been established. Years of repressed anger and pain had breached the dam and now rushed out and threatened to drown everyone and everything left in its path. "I saw them leave the room when I walked up toward the door with the hairbrush. She was laughing and happy and moving on with her life like I had never meant anything to her. She hurt me, and she was getting away with it with impunity—just like _you _have time after time, pushing me away when someone better crossed your path. If I fuck up, I'm to be tarred and feathered but if you and Cuddy treat me like crap then everyone declares that it's justified or understandable or your 'right'. Well I wasn't going to let myself be used and hurt like that again. She was going to know that she couldn't break my heart and not give a damn. I intended to drive into her dining room—her _empty_ dining room—but I never intended on anyone getting hurt except maybe for me."

"House, stop, you had no way of knowing that they hadn't returned," Wilson protested, his hands moving to his hips. "And you fuck up all the time, but Cuddy and I—!"

"Cuddy and you are perfect," House finished for him. "It's just House, so who gives a damn if he's hurt or offended by the rotten way we treat him. He deserves it. Yeah, I know."

"You could have killed me—!"

"I told you to get out of the car because I knew that I could be killed and I _didn't_ want you to get hurt. You saw me coming and yet you just stood there and wouldn't get out of the way. I had to swerve at the last second to avoid you. You wouldn't have had to jump out of the way and break your wrist."

"I thought you were trying to run me over!" Wilson shouted defensively

"When have I _ever _tried to injure you or kill you?" House demanded. His voice dripped the hurt he felt at the mere suggestion that he would. "I punched you once when I thought you'd betrayed me with the Ketamine and I knocked your shin with my cane a couple of times to get your attention or make you wake up from your mental stupor but I have never tried to injure or kill you; I would _die_ first!"

Wilson opened his mouth to speak to that but House wouldn't allow him.

"I was so hopped up on surgical anesthetic, Vicodin and booze—I should never have been allowed behind the wheel by the sober person present—that would have been _you_, Wilson. But there is some justification for that I'm sure; there always is. I didn't feel anything after the crash—I was numb, but when I came down I realized that I'd hurt you…and hadn't cared. Fiji was beautiful, and if it hadn't been for my guilt over hurting you I might never have come back. For three months I tried to forget about hurting you and I couldn't. I wasn't sorry for damaging Cuddy's house, but I _was_ about hurting you and letting you down again. So I came back, turned myself in and took whatever punishment they threw at me because I deserved it for what I did—_to you_. I survived by thinking about you and hoping that when I was finally released from prison you would still be around and be willing to forgive me. That's all that mattered—all that's _ever_ mattered to me is you. Not Cuddy—she was second pick and the biggest mistake of my life thus far. It's always been _you_!"

House didn't look at Wilson, couldn't look at Wilson, now. He returned his gaze to the ground below, wondering how quickly he could leap over the wall, and whether death would be instantaneous.

Wilson stared at him, stunned into silence. House expected him to turn on his heel and hurry away in anger. Instead he heard a sigh that seemed to go on forever. Wilson leaned against the wall, a mirror image of him and took a few moments to come up with a response. It was not what House expected.

"Why didn't you tell me that before you nearly mowed me down and launched your car into a house?" Wilson's voice was soft, dry and very, very Wilson.

"Yeah, because I've _always _waxed poetic with you," House answered without looking up. "I _wanted_ to lose my best friend by alienating and disgusting him with the fact that I want him."

"House, that wouldn't drive me away or cause me to end our friendship," Wilson told him in frustration. "The refusal to talk to me about anything of substance, fighting my attempts to help you, your drive to self-destruct—those are what drive me away. Damnit, I gave up the hope of you ever allowing _me_ to love _you_!"

House jerked his head up to look at Wilson; it was his turn to be left speechless.

"Why the hell do you think I'm even willing to stand here and listen to what you have to say?" Wilson asked him before shaking his head ruefully. "I know I haven't always been a good friend. I didn't know it hurt you when I appeared to put girlfriends and wives ahead of you—"

"When you _appeared_ to—? For Christ's sake, Wilson! You heard nothing I said, did you? What do you call kicking me out of the loft so you could move in that bitch ex-wife of yours? What do you call paying my team to take me out to keep me away from you and the harpy, hmm? Quit insulting my intelligence—and yours."

Wilson was silent again. House had hit a nerve, he knew, but he also knew that if there was anyone more stubborn about acknowledging a fault than he was, it was Wilson—he tried so hard to convince himself and absolutely everyone around him that he was the good, kind, long-suffering friend that to admit that he wasn't perfect and to apologize was physically painful for him.

"If you would have told me how you really felt about me," Wilson said after a while, "then I might not have spent years running away from my feelings for you."

"You could have told me, too." House shook his head at the both of them. "We're both goddamned fools, Wilson. We're both to blame for avoiding talking about the real stuff."

Sighing, Wilson nodded. "Yeah…yeah we are. But you're worse than I am. I tried to get you to talk to me, but you kept pushing me away. I knew something with you was going to snap, I just didn't know when, or how, until it was too late."

"After being rejected for Sam, there was no fucking way I was going to trust you with my thoughts again," House informed him, looking at him with searching blue eyes.

Again there was silence, and it wasn't comfortable. House wondered if there was any way they could ever find a bridge between them again. Perhaps Wilson was right; perhaps their friendship was irreparably damaged. All House knew was that for over a year there had been a giant hole in his life which could only be filled by his once best friend, and he was bleeding out. He couldn't survive without Wilson in his life; he didn't _want_ to.

"What do I have to do?" House asked softly, his words almost carried away by the wind.

Wilson looked at him and shrugged. "I don't know if there's anything you can do, or anything I can do for that matter. Nothing lasts forever. Maybe our friendship has gone as far as it can go."

"So you're just going to write me off?" House asked him, the thin veil of anger intended to hide his hurt in front of Wilson's eyes. "That's it? Twenty years of weathering storms, of kicking back over beer and Chinese, me telling you just now that I…that I…love you…and you're going to throw in the towel and give up? We're not worth it—or, rather, _I'm _not worth it?"

"House, you can't just walk back into my life again after an entire year has passed and expect me to forget that and go back to start," Wilson told him, catching House's gaze and holding it. "You have no idea what I went through after you literally walked out of my life. I searched for you. For three months I scoured the streets for you, I even hired a private detective to find you. I was desperate to know what had become of you after you walked away that night. I didn't know if you were dead or alive and it nearly drove me insane. They were the worst three months of my life up until then but that was dwarfed by the anger and confusion I experienced when you turned yourself in and I found out you'd fled the country to a tropical locale and never thought to call me or text me or do anything to let me know that you were alright."

"I knew the police would be watching you and tap your phone in case I called you," House explained. "I didn't want to implicate you in all of it, nor have the police suspect that you were an accomplice after the fact. I wanted to contact you, but I couldn't risk it."

"It wasn't just that," the younger man said, shaking his head. "You didn't have to face the aftermath, but I did. I had to have a pin put into my wrist for it to heal properly and to this day, after months of physio, I still don't have full range of motion. Every time it rains the pain keeps me awake at night. Cuddy was ready to throw the book at you, there was a manhunt out, she slapped a restraining order on you to keep away from her and the hospital and she trashed your name with the press. I tried to convince her to give you the benefit of the doubt but she refused. She went straight to the board to have your tenure removed and to have you fired then lobbied to have your license permanently revoked. She started a blackball campaign against you with every Level One hospital in the country. I tried to defend you while everyone was calling me a fool and an idiot—and other, more derogatory things—for having been your friend and still believing that there was a good reason why you hadn't turned yourself in. Cuddy's smear campaign went after me, too. There were board members wanting my head on the block, too—guilt by association."

House remained silent when Wilson stopped to breathe. His stoic mask had returned, but underneath he felt ashamed at what his actions had done to Wilson beyond the physical. That aspect of his crimes he hadn't really considered before now.

"I thought you didn't give a damn about me," Wilson continued grimly, "or ever had. I was willing to forgive your flight and believe that you did what you did out of temporary insanity but when you pled guilty I didn't know what to think anymore. I tried to see you at the prison but they told me that you weren't taking visitors and turned me away. What was I supposed to think after that?"

"I didn't want you see me in that place, like that," House said, breaking the eye-lock they had and looking back over the wall. "I didn't deserve a defense—I deserved to go to prison. I felt too guilty to face you after what I'd done—I didn't _deserve_ to see you. I could have swerved too late; I could have killed you."

"But you didn't."

"I got lucky," House insisted. "That doesn't justify it."

"No, it doesn't." Wilson turned so that his back was to the wall and he leaned against it. House and he were able to look face to face, only House refused to look up at him again. "I know how badly Cuddy hurt you. I had to grit my teeth and keep my mouth glued shut on more than one occasion while you two were still dating because if I hadn't I would have laid into her for the way she was manipulating you. I believe you when you say that taking that one Vicodin was the only way you could manage to be with her during her crisis. But House, I also had to witness the way fear and spite took over her and destroyed the woman I once admired. She had every shred of security stripped of her. You didn't deserve to be manipulated and used and then dumped, but she didn't deserve what you did to her either. Do you even see that? You talk about regretting what you did to me, but I haven't once seen or heard any remorse from you for what you did to her. _Do_ you regret it?"

House thought about that—as if he hadn't thought enough about it over the long, hard, lonely months in prison. While he wanted to regret hurting her, the only thing he did regret was the _way_ in which he hurt her. Wilson was right. His war with Cuddy had built upon itself, escalating to the point where someone was destined to suffer, and selfish as it may have been, House had determined not to be that one. Still, it would have been enough to throw that goddamned hairbrush through her dining room window and driven away. What it was that had possessed him to go from throwing a hairbrush to crashing his car into her dining room, he just didn't know. Did he feel regret? Yes, but probably not for what Wilson wanted him to feel it for.

"I regret crashing the car into her house," he answered. That was the best that Wilson was going to get; House had nothing more to give him unless he was going to lie, and he'd already done enough of that.

"But you don't regret terrifying her and causing her to feel so unsafe here that she had to resign her position at the hospital and move away?" Wilson demanded. When House refused to answer Wilson shook his head bitterly. "What happens when I hurt you badly, House? Will you learn to fly and crash a plane into the loft? How can I feel genuinely safe around you?"

"What do you want from me, Wilson?" House demanded in frustration. "Do you want me to say that I'm sorry I hurt her and scared her away? Her leaving was her own choice, her final performance to drive another nail in my coffin; "Big, bad House scared me so now I have to sacrifice my life and move away." I did a little investigating…do you realize she's making almost twice as much now as she was here? That's quite the sacrifice. I don't regret letting her know that Gregory House is done with being everybody's punching bag or scapegoat. I wanted her to know in no uncertain terms that it was _not_ alright for her to lie to me, get my hopes up by telling me that I am good enough before stomping on my heart and telling me that she'd lied, and I was no longer good enough—for anybody? Well, I'm not. Am I sorry for taking things to such an extreme, risking your life and the lives of Cuddy and her guests? Yes. Yes, Wilson, that I regret. I regret it so much much that I would never do that again to anyone—but especially not to you—never to you."

House rose to his full height, facing his best friend. Wilson stood up as well.

"Do you…?" House began, and then checked himself. This piqued Wilson's curiosity.

"Do I what, House?"

Taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly, House tried again. "Has there ever been a time—even just once—that you ever regretted hurting me?" House's eyes were burning and he blinked back the moisture that threatened to appear in them. They stood a couple of feet apart, and cobalt blue eyes searched brown ones for any sign of regret that would give him hope that perhaps there was something left worth fighting to save between them.

Wilson wasn't as skilled at keeping the tears back as House; his eyes glistened and he swallowed hard.

"Every day," he murmured, blinking furiously and then pinching the bridge of his nose to hide the fact that he was brushing tears away.

House nodded. Wilson headed toward the door to the stairwell, but stopped halfway there when House said his name.

"There's one more thing I regret," House told him.

Wilson brushed another tear away before it could fall. "Oh yeah? What's that?"

A small, lopsided smile ghosted over House's lips. "Failing to do this before now." He closed the distance between him and Wilson; before Wilson knew what was happening he found himself being pulled into House's arms. He pressed his mouth against Wilson's, possessing it, devouring him with desire and passion. House knew he was throwing caution to the wind, that this was the deciding act. Either Wilson would end their friendship for good and lay him out like an old rug with a left upper cut, or their friendship as it was would end…and be replaced with something new and better. The way House saw it, he had nothing to lose.

At first Wilson went rigid in his embrace and didn't kiss back—but he didn't push House away either. His body relaxed after a moment, and a moment later began to kiss back. House felt Wilson's hands come to rest on his hips; through slitted eyes he saw his angry friend's eyes shut. When Wilson moaned softly House pulled him even closer. There was no tongue, just lips gently moving against each other, tentatively testing, caressing. It was the most incredible thing House had ever experienced. When he pulled back slowly to breathe Wilson's eyes opened and their eyes met. There was still anger in those chocolate depths, and hurt—but there was something more, too. A yearning had taken seed there, as well as a hint of contrition.

"If you think that sex will fix things between us, you're wrong," Wilson told him firmly.

House shook his head. "I don't. I…wanted you to know that I won't change who I am for you or anyone else but…but I can try to change the way I do some things. I can start talking more. I can…get help, again. I will stop trying to…to hurt myself to punish myself and hurt you. I can do these things if I know I have a reason to…if I know there's a chance that I won't lose you."

Wilson looked at him searchingly before breaking free of the embrace and taking a step back. "I can give you a chance, on one condition."

House waited for Wilson to go on.

"No more self-destruction; we talk about what's wrong."

A simple nod was House's answer. Wilson nodded back before stepping through the door into the hospital. House watched him go and then sighed in relief. He knew he had a lot of work ahead of him before Wilson would ever trust him again, but he'd received another chance. It was a start.

_**~fin~**_


End file.
